


A Broken Clock Is Right Twice a Day

by Clocksmith



Category: Crash Bandicoot (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Enemies to Friends, F/M, I Hope I Didin't Mango Too Far, Lost in Time, Older!Coco, Pining, enemies to lovers?, forced to work together, fruit puns, implied mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27211939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocksmith/pseuds/Clocksmith
Summary: I am loath to admit it… but the idea shifting within my mind is perhaps not so ridiculous after all. That perhaps growing closer to Coco Bandicoot could hold more than simple logic can dictate. More than I can calculate with my mind.And far more than my heart can decipher.
Relationships: Coco Bandicoot & Nefarious Tropy, Coco Bandicoot/Nefarious Tropy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	A Broken Clock Is Right Twice a Day

**Author's Note:**

> More Coco Bandicoot! This time with a new pairing! This piece was commissioned by a lovely friend of mine named Alia! If you're interested in a commission yourself, you'll find me hanging around at www.fiverr.com/eerieclocksmith/write-the-thing-if-you-want-the-thing

Ridiculous.

The thought is utterly _ridiculous._

But as Coco Bandicoot tightens another sprocket on the brass of my gauntlets, I can’t deny that the idea has some level of merit to it. As loathe as I am to admit such a fact.

I can’t help but clench my fist as my forearm tightens, the brass closing back into place. My skin feels taught under the new pressure, still tender and fresh from the cosmic burns. Already I can feel my pores expanding, sweating. Uncomfortable with being put to work so soon after their sudden leave of absence.

She eases my fist back down. “Sit still!”

My lips stretch into an uneven sneer. “I am _trying_ to hold still, you little vermin.” Even so, I oblige. I grasp my leg in an honest effort to steady the brief spasms that come unbidden to my body. “This is far from a pleasant experience.”

“I’m aware,” she easily agrees.

There is a gentleness to her work, as she contorts everything into its designated place. A sweet reverence for my technology, as if it is some timid creature that she must appease before it relents to her comforting hand. I suppose in concept, my reluctance to submit to her design is no different.

That is a commonality with Coco Bandicoot. Or Military Strategist Cocovsky Bandicoot. Heir to the Marsupial Throne Princess Linacoco Bandicoot, Marsupus Erectus Koko Banda Koot.

Evil Scientist Extraordinaire Doctor Dark Cocoa Bandicoot.

No matter where I venture across the deep annals of infinite reality, she exists in some form. And each time we meet, there is always a common thread; a love for mechanical creation. Be it sticks and chiselled stone in a tepid cave or weaponry to arm the Cortex Militia as it expands his rule over her pathetic little planet. There is always an adoration for unnatural creation. For invention, for progress.

Of course, there are others; artists, athletes, dancers and thieves. Worlds where she is a pirate, or a ruthless barbarian. But beneath the surface, there is always something that burns with creative intent.

Much like myself, there is a consistent intelligence.

Enough of an intelligence that my Coco Bandicoot has mastered the same technology that I myself created.

“Done,” she suddenly says.

I flex my fingers, hearing the smooth clicking of the components within. Perfectly repaired, perfectly adequate. Even more so, now that it safely contains the deep burns running up my arm.

“Noted,” I reply. My hand stretches out, the bones in my knuckles cracking. “Chronological navigation circuits?”

“Not as busted as they were five hours ago.”

Also noted. “Then we shall soon try again.”

The years have been kind to her mind. A once immature child has matured into something close to a scientist. Most certainly an engineer; her mastery of mechanics rivals even the likes of N. Gin and his frivolous little battleships and robots. With her, it has evolved from simple experimentation into an art. One I can’t help but respect.

If not as an enemy, then an engineering equal.

Even so, she continues to secure the machinery on my arm, her touch pressing on the muscle of my bicep. The burns from our last escape attempt remain, but less so. My forearms and hands were the worst affected. If not for the crackpot wizard in the forest and his healing balms, it would likely have been days, maybe weeks before further experimentation could have progressed.

It is a touch I have not relished in some time; let alone from an individual I consider even remotely competent with technology. My female counterpart was perhaps the closest to trigger such a reaction, as seeped in narcissism as it was.

Who else would be the perfect partner in all things evil than yourself? But like all previous ventures in the past, present and future, it seems it was, is and will not become reality.

Such is my apparent rate of failure when confronted by the likes of Crash and Coco Bandicoot.

Crash, I can scarcely even begin to consider tolerating. He is a flea-ridden runt of a marsupial that only managed to escape Cortex due to his own sheer incompetenc.. He is the most animalistic, compared to the likes of Coco Bandicoot. Even compared to the other female subject, though her name escapes me.

Cortex let his fantasies get away with him for that one. I’m surprised the leech gave her clothes at all.

With Coco, toleration has come easy since our little… incident.

“We should get food. Pretty sure some guys at the castle sell food.”

“Some _peasants_ in castle courtyard sell food. I hardly find that an appetising prospect.”

“Well, I’m not going hungry if we’re staying stuck in the middle ages. I’m also not waiting until the next shift only to find out that we’re stuck in an ancient jungle where everything is stupid poisonous.”

Like most things recently, I am loath to admit that Coco Bandicoot has a point.

“You need food too, Nefarious.”

Just as I am loath to admit that she is right.

She pulls me to my feet, her hands lingering on my gauntlets for only a few seconds longer than required. So short a time that she likely thinks I did not notice.

But I do, and as she pulls her furry little hands away, her eyes are just as quick to feign disinterest.

I have begun to notice such moments more, as of late. Those moments where pleasantries continue just that little moment longer than is necessary. The socialising that happens in moments where we have to wait for my armour to regain a workable modicum of power.

The times we eat food together, and the squabbles that no longer seem to occur with a distinct regularity.

Trapped in a foreign time period, there is plenty of time for moments like that. Damaging the latest device in my suit has left us without much choice but to tolerate each other.

A slight miscalculation on potential outside forces on my part. The heel of her boot from her own.

More admissions I refuse to vocalise. But we are both the unintended cause, and thus, we must both deal with the symptoms.

Two weeks, three days, eight hours and thirty-two minutes Non-Linear Time since our little _adventure_ began. With each passing of those minutes, I wish wholeheartedly that the next jump will be strong enough to return us to our native time period. Or within a small enough branch of time that we can reintegrate ourselves into the timeline without affecting our past selves.

Ruining the timeline when I do not have direct control over the effects would be horrendously foolish. Like throwing unlabelled metals into hydrochloric acid.

But with all this together, stranded together. I feel myself wishing for more of these shining little moments. These instances of disgusting affection that take over when there is precious little to bicker over. I wonder how I am expected to respond to these moments.

I wonder if my responses are adequate for so-called _polite_ conversation.

At first, I believed there was little stopping me from leaving her behind, stranding her in our initial prison of a time period. How marvellous would it have been to banish Coco Bandicoot to a freshly built pyramid, without any extra effort on my part? To return to my own time and read of its history, and learn of the little marsupial that was trapped in there centuries upon centuries ago?

Delicate work requires delicate hands. And without the lack of tools, modern technology and assisted handiwork, I would have made little progress in comparison. Even more so now, that the latest failure has burned one of hands to such a tender degree.

No, it would not do to abandon an essential asset such as Coco Bandicoot. Not when our common goal anchors her to my survival. I had most definitely considered her an asset. Not even an assistant, but a tool to be utilised. A respected tool, but a tool all the same.

So why then do I now believe that such a title is inadequate for her?

“In that case,” I digress, shifting back to our previous line of conversation. I suppose it is considered unkind to leave something so trivial unsaid. “I suggest we locate a produce vendor. Bakeries are rife with disease and poor practise in this time period, as are butchers. They lack standards, whereas farmers have little else to show but the fruits of their labour.”

She snorts. I should find it disgusting. “Was that a joke?” I don’t.

I cannot blush; a remnant from so long spent in the infinite chill of space. My body is cold, my skin blue. But I imagine this is the sort of moment that might have brought a healthy heat to my otherwise hollow cheeks.

I also refuse to stutter like a childish fool. “Their produce is fresh, and only tampered with the likes of bone meal and natural magic. If we are to eat, I would rather not die from food poisoning.”

I am loath to admit it… but the idea shifting within my mind is perhaps not so ridiculous after all. That perhaps growing closer to Coco Bandicoot could hold more benefits than simple logic can dictate.

Dare I say, as we walk into a bustling market, with all the appearance of a knight and his loyal squire, that she might feel the same about me.

The local populace is largely ignorant to our true identity; they see what they wish to believe, and a knight is strange garb with a furry companion is much easier on their limited thinking capacity than any possible alternative.

Even in a time period dripping with natural magic, they cling to their small circle of reality and fester in it, pushing out all outside possibilities in trade for a relative bliss in their limited existence. I doubt the riffraff of this castle town even know what the word ‘science’ means.

But that is Clark’s eponymous Third Law, is it not? That any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic.

Regardless, they are suited to their local era. As dull and oppressively stupid as I find them, they have adapted to the struggles of their world and make do. Just as the cave dweller in ancient times learns to hunt rabid beasts and sleep in the cold, so too have these people learned to farm crops and rear animals.

Not much more than that, but it is as useful as we need them to be.

One such vendor sees our approach. His demeanour shifts immediately, rousing from a tired spell into something falsely energetic and pleasant.

“’Ello there!” he says. His drawl is ancient. English West Country with a dip by way of several missing teeth. “Don’t often see a new knight ‘round these parts.”

I’m surprised you can see anything at all. “Fruit,” I say sharply.

Apparently, that is not enough. Coco continues for me. “Yes! What sort of fruit do you have?” But I let her speak. I am told my… social manner is too refined for these imbeciles.

Or, as Coco Bandicoot so put it, ‘ _abrasive’._

We can clearly see all the fruit on display; apples, pears, and a small collection of semi-dried plums, either the most expensive item, or indeed the most popular. Potatoes and leeks finish what will surely make a oh-so _delightfully_ mundane meal.

“Well, we got a good ‘arvest o’ Granny Smiths. Some Red Macintosh. Me daughter prepared some dried plums if you’re feelin’ ‘specially adventurous.” Yes, how adventures. _Dried fruit._ “The king ‘imself ordered a barrel last month.”

“Good for him,” I reply, teeth grit.

Once again, I am beat by my companion. “Ooh, I’ve never had dried plums.” Her voice grows excitable, obviously so. “Prices. What are your prices?”

The vendor’s smile grows, sniffing an easy sale no doubt. “Four pieces for a handful of plums. One each for two of all else.”

Her manner may be what she calls kind, but it is my wit that managed to secure us currency. Even if we had managed to escape this infernal age, items of value can always prove useful. If we end up in the far future, they can be sold for a high price, or traded in others for goods of comparable wealth.

I was told it was ‘rude’ to shake down the haughty man in the carriage for his wealth, but I don’t see her complaining right now. Not when it has secured us sustenance.

But that was on an empty road. Doing so in a filled castle would likely make our stay here far more tedious than it already is.

“What do you want, Nefarious?”

Admittedly, my first name catches me off-guard. It is used so little these days, compared to Dr N.Tropy. “Does it matter?” Except by Coco.

“I mean, yeah? Isn’t there anything you want? I’m getting the plums.” She also picks up an apple. “And some apples. You know what they say; an apple a day keeps the doctor away!”

“… Was that a joke at my expense?”

“Wha– No! No, it wasn’t meant to be. Just… trying to be funny. And junk.”

Indeed.

I can tout her great mind all I wish, but she is still a Bandicoot. All of them are experiments, things created by Cortex and greatly influenced by his own demeanour. Or, to put it simply, full of potential but squandered by the little things in life.

All three of the marsupials are easily distracted, or prone to bouts of insanity. Crash more so than the other two; he’s rarely had a lucid moment in his life. Tawna – Tawna, that’s her name – is prone to entirely ditzy behaviour, despite her more refined build and strength.

Coco likes to be funny. And play videogames, or dance with her brother when she grows especially excited.

Another constant, of sorts. Even the strictest incarnations of Coco Bandicoot are prone to moments of silliness. Even if it only amounts to talking to themselves or adding an especially mundane application to an otherwise impressive machine.

Who else but something created by the likes of Cortex would put cupholders and a snack dispensary in a Giga-Mech designed to walk over whole cities?

Despite that – despite all of that, the shift in my Coco’s tone is jarring, so quickly falling from jubilation into something morose. Like a child whose balloon I have seen fit to pop.

I have a stinging urge to restore her demeanour, though I cannot explain how, or why. It adds little to our interactions and will amount a temporary blip in our excursion at the very most. Something forgotten when the moment is over.

Yet, that urge remains.

That urge to fix, to repair. As does the sting that makes the ordeal feel entirely inappropriate, not to mention illogical.

Why should I fix such a small aspect of my enemy? Not when I can leave it without any immediate negative connotations.

But with that thought the urge to repair returns, and it is harder to shake off with each passing ticking of my clock.

And so, I look to the fruit in front of me, all of it free for the taking if I so chose. I pick one up in the easy grasp of my gauntlets.

“I… see,” I reply. “Regardless, you could say…” I lift said fruit up. “That we make quite the pear?”

For a moment there is silence, and I believe I have not ‘joked’ in the correct manner. Without a maliciousness to fuel it, there is nothing to understand, or correlate to any past experience. Without a planned insult, I cannot base the effectiveness of my attempt on any known quantity.

But then Coco Bandicoot laughs, and all of that doesn’t seem to matter.

“Yes! You made a stupid pun!” Her smile is sickeningly bright… but not unpleasantly so. Like a sweet eaten in too high a quantity. “See? You can be fun. Anyone can be fun.”

Evidentially…

The vendor, not so, it seems. “’Fraid I’ll need that coin, now. You touch it, you buy it.”

Shrewd, yet oddly kind. How perplexingly paradoxical.

We make our purchase; multiple apples, two pears and a few handfuls of dried plums. This age has yet to invent the basic concept of convenience, and we are left to carry said fare in our own hands like wild animals.

Without a residence or any societal link to the local population, I suppose the allegory is not unfounded.

Hills grace the countryside, untouched by the advance of industry. Untouched by advancement; industry on a scale I find comfortable to live within will not become commonplace for several centuries, and even then, it will be infantile in comparison to what my skills can offer. Or Coco Bandicoot’s skills, for that matter.

The natural give of the grass beneath my feet falters my step, but we make way to our chosen location; a small hill away from Castletown. It offers silence, isolation and space. All three are required for experimentation and privacy from the masses of this place.

Travelling through time by way of my new suit should have been relatively simple; it would allow me to traverse time and space with a mere set of coordinates and the required energy to do so. An energy source that gathers over time without any outside input from myself.

Without frivolous use, I would have little need to search for energy at all.

One broken keypad and a trip to the Cenozoi did much to change that simplicity. Especially when it brought an unwilling participant in tow.

I had planned for extra baggage. Samples and specimens taken from their local times are part in parcel with doing any research on any given time period.

Sadly, I did not specify what should actually count as a specimen. The close proximity of Coco Bandicoot during transit was not something I had planned for. Nor had I made a procedure for the possibility of coordinate input being unavailable.

And being stuck in a humdrum period hardly helped matters.

But progressive jumps in time offer new materials, commodities and chances to find something that will allow us to make a full trip to the relative present.

An accurate input would help matters, but with the ability to move through time and space at all, I cannot afford to be too picky. Lest I be forced to spend another decade trapped in the past.

“Plums!”

At least this time, I have more tolerable company than Uka-Uka and Cortex.

Our next jump has a high chance of working out for the best, assuming my equipment does not combust on me a second time. A simple oversight in the end, but still one that could have been avoided had we not been overzealous in our progress. One that still requires minor tinkering to full explain.

It was strange, the feeling that the project might almost be complete. That something I had worked on with another was bearing fruit.

As forced as our so-called project is.

It brings that same sense of joy as I had all those years ago with the Rift Generator. With Tropy and her views oh so identical to mine.

Working together with someone has not felt so irritable an experience since.

I wonder how the current situation would have differed, had I not met Tropy. Had she not opened my eyes to the possibility of camaraderie.

I’m sure yet another Tropy is experiencing it right at this very moment. Somewhere I might never visit.

“So…” Coco Bandicoot begins, stretching out the sound. I consume away half of my pear. “Do you, like, hang around when you travel through time?”

“Hang around?”

“Yeah. See the sights and stuff. Meet the people.”

Meet the people, indeed. My responding glare answers at least that aspect of her question. As for the rest…

“I do as much research as I require for any given venture. I do not need to _see the sights_.”

Her response is innocent and curious. “Not even some of the castles? Or famous events?”

Perhaps some other Tropy does. Some Tropy who travels his history with a love for the subject, rather than any true grasp on the sciences that drive him.

But not me. “No. I am a scientist, not an historian. I research each location, learn of its uses, its advantages.”

“But you knew about which food was the best to get while we were here?”

“Simple common sense.” I eat the final half of my pear whole. “If I am to be stranded somewhere, somewhen, then I refuse to be killed by happenstance or some diseased peasant.”

My answer is curt, to the point. It gets across each piece of information I need it to, and my answer to the question feels complete. It covers my situation, my emergency planning.

Yet, it does not feel like the conversation should end. It is complete to the letter.

But perhaps… not to the spirit.

“What… of yourself?” I find myself asking. The words are uneasy, my tone unsure. “During your own voyage through time and space. Did you _partake_ in local customs?”

“Duh. I’m not riding a Pura through ancient China and missing all the culture. All the people wandering the streets, living lives that I would never have seen. Talking to them, trying their food. Getting a few photos.”

“… Pura?”

“My tiger. When everything was over, it felt wrong leaver hi there. Or then. Crash and I brought him back to our island.”

A pleasant hum rises in my throat. “So much for saving history.”

“We saved it from you, and the universe didn’t explode when we brought him home. It all worked out.”

“Removing a tiger would not cause the universe to ‘explode,” I curtly reply. “Time adapts to minor changes, but they are changes all the same. He might have been an integral part of Chinese history.”

“But she wasn’t.”

Evidently.

“And it’s not exactly stealing crystals to fuel a device to destroy the world, is it. Pretty sure the universe couldn’t just fix that.”

“No, hence why we were trying very hard to ensure that it was a success. But Cortex left his visage on many historical monuments. He interacted with their cultures, and yet, the world is the same. Time adapted and the universe is little different for it.”

“And we kicked his butt, so it all ended pretty well.”

For you and your ilk, yes. For my own sanity, not so much. A decade spent in the dark with Cortex did little to ease any aspect of my personality. My rage remains to this day and it only goes to fuel my drive to push the limits of time further still.

There is so much still to do, so many avenues of chronology to pick apart and rebuild anew.

“It all kind of sounds like a waste to me, to be honest.”

I begin on an apple. “What does?”

“Having access to a time machine. To _time_ and not… seeing it. Not seeing all the places and the cultures. Not experiences these places for what they are, what they were and what most people will never even begin to truly understand. You get to see things that no longer _are_. You see people who left their mark on the world and step under the skies that have seen much more than we could ever imagine. If I had easy access to a time machine, with no world to save and no idiots trying to ruin the universe, that’s what I’d do. Just see it.”

Just see it.

I do see it. I record, I research. I see all the aspects that I need to in order to succeed. Most of the time.

Clearly, my companion picks up on this. “Don’t you ever think about the magical part of time travel?”

“I don’t utilise magic in my time machines.”

“That’s not what I mean, you idiot. I mean the emotional parts. The things you experience rather than just look at.”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because you start making puns about fruit, and it’s nice to see you smile, you know?”

No, I don’t.

But the perspective fits. This new feeling of elation at experiencing time with another. Out of my usual zone of expertise, trapped and with an enemy as my sole confidant. But with said confidant attaching herself to my very soul day by linear day, the idea of _experiencing_ rather than seeing makes perfect sense.

It offers a view into her way of thinking, and not one I have ever considered before.

My passions are the sciences, but the way Coco Bandicoot talks, this creature I consider my closest equal… it seems to her to be more an art. A work to pour emotion into, to imagine and explore with more than just simple logic and numbers.

I’m not sure I understand such an appeal, but she does.

That makes it a curiosity to me, at least.

“I do not smile,” I reply, knowing it to be untrue.

“You were totally smiling when you lifted the pear.”

“Humph. Of course, I was; my joke was ingenious.”

“Ingeniously cheesy.”

I feel myself smile again, despite my effort to resist the urge. A change of topic is in order. “As for stealing the crystals, I doubt you and your brother were much better. You must have had to steal food in order to eat and survive. What difference is there, in theory?”

Her fur visibly bristles. “We did not steal. Anything.”

“Out of worry for the timeline, I assume? And yet you bring a tiger to the future.”

“No, not because of the timeline. Because of the people. They might have lived centuries ago, but when we were there, they were alive. They were living their lives. We weren’t going to steal from that.”

“To what end? Surely it made your quest pointlessly difficult as a consequence.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

I disagree; it made their efforts difficult and added an unneeded task to their many others. But if that is how their misguided sense of conscience works, so be. Far be it from me to declare it entirely moot.

They won out in the end.

Something occurs to me, then. Her sense of justice won’t have changed in the time since then. Nor the time since our last major meeting.

“And that is why you tolerate me, is it? Out of a misguided sense of kindness?”

“No, of course not. We’re two people stuck in the same situation. We’re stuck either way, so there’s no point _not_ working together. And if we’re working together, we might as well be friendly. Like friends.”

“Friends. You do realise that I do not deal with so-called _friends._ I deal with associates.”

“We’ve got on fine ever since we ended up in this mess though, right?”

I struggle to find the correct words but settle on one that is perhaps rather too simple to encapsulate how I truly feel. “Yes.”

“Then what difference would it make if we were friends?”

I do not know, nor do I know what the correct answer to such a question should be.

Do I want to be friends with… Coco Bandicoot?

Would it be worth my while? Would the drawbacks be worth the gains?

What would those gains even be? And would they hold advantage over my current state of being? The ordeal with being lost in time, aside.

Were any of these thoughts even the sort of thoughts one was meant to have over the magical matter of tolerance and friendship? The idea feels about as much a fantasy as the wizards and unicorns that infest our current time period.

I don’t suppose the thoughts are shared by ‘good guys’ at all. “Your company is certainly more pleasant than that of Cortex and his infernal little mask.”

“So you think I’m more fun than Cortex, huh?”

I see her smirk but choose to ignore it. Mostly. “Of course. You have more common sense than that idiot.”

I pick up the second and final pear, its weight reminding me of its significance. Of that little moment shared in the market. Making an innocent joke and finding myself smiling without my own knowledge.

I finish it regardless. Coco moves through her own food, eventually turning to me once more. I had expected such small talk to grate on my senses, yet it does not. Merely a curiosity to find out what she will say next.

“You want some plums?”

Nothing important. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Come on, they’re pretty good.”

Like a doting parent, she takes another for herself. The smile she pushes to her face is forced but fuelled by something pure. “See?”

“Be that as it may, I have no desire to eat a _dried_ fruit when I might eat something fresher.”

“You don’t like dried fruit?”

“They hold no better nutritional value that a common fruit, nor will it be as filling as an apple.”

“… You do know that you _can_ just eat something because it tastes good, right?”

“To what possible purpose?”

“You seriously don’t eat food for anything else other than filling you up.”

“Of course not.”

When no further explanation is offered, she rolls her eyes and drags a furry hand up through her hair. It has become dishevelled as of late, away from her routine and the care she seems to usually give it. The loss in perfection irks me, slightly. It is an aspect that is no longer in prime condition.

There’s a brief wish to help her with that, but it returns to the dark depths from which it came shortly after. Where all useless thoughts tend to rise and fall.

“You’re trying some plums.”

“No.”

“Nef.”

Nef…? “No.”

“Yes.”

“I am not.”

“Eat it.”

“Never–“

“Eat it!”

“Fine!” I roar, pulling the dried slices from her hand. “If it will make you shut up.”

She is evidently pleased, the fierceness in her countenance vanishing as if it had never existed at all, replaced by a toothy grin.

I stare at the dried plum, ready to simply swallow the thing and have it done with. “Don’t just bite and swallow.”

Of course... “What else do you expect me to do?”

“Taste it. Actually chew it, taste it. _Experience_ it. Then swallow.”

“Fine,” I repeat, quieter this time. “Fine.” And again.

I do as requested, despite my much better judgement. I put the offending scrap into my mouth, chewing it slowly, allowing the moisture in my mouth to infect the dried surface and bring whatever it has inside back to the surface.

A scant softness returns, but a tang spreads over my tongue in its absence. It is something almost fresh, pushed further. The sugars lying dormant within the flesh are emphasised, the water filling the majority of the fruit absent to hide it. It is sweet, yet not overly so. It is one of the few things in recent decades I have consumed without a truly nutritional purpose. It is a lowly thing, dried and stored by the locals because they haven’t the mind or ingenuity to do so in any other way. It offers less than what a fresh plum would, even more so when compared to nutrient tablets or genetically altered foodstuffs.

Despite all of that, I must admit it is sweet. Pleasant.

“It tastes… pleasant.”

Coco claps. “See! There’s more to life than just numbers and logic, Nef.”

There’s that word again. “Nef? What is _Nef_?”

“Nef. Like, Nefarious but shorter. Your name takes too long to say. So, it’s like a nickname.”

A nickname.

I have never had a nickname. Not one that I particularly cared for, nor one borne from such an innocent manner. It implies closeness, does it not?

Have the last few weeks warranted such a change?

Why do I care little that she insists on it?

Why do I care at all?

“Tropy is shorter than Nefarious. A name I did not ask you to begin using.”

“Yeah but… last names feel weird, don’t they? After spending a long time with someone.”

“Even an enemy, such as myself?”

“We haven’t been enemies for about a month now though. Just feels kinda wrong.”

To her mind, perhaps. Yet, I cannot find the will to complain.

“If you wish,” is all I say. I’m not willing to say any more, but looking into Coco’s shining eyes, I do not believe I need to.

She seems to understand that perfectly.

Whatever fragility composes this little moment is broken by a wailing of screams in the visible distance. A caravan sits on a path, the surrounding grass scorched by hellfire and drowned in smoke.

Just beyond them, a dragon. Fat, with vile wings and a long neck. But a dragon all the same.

It bellows fire once more, aiming for a figure running around it. More figures flee the scene, abandoning the cart to its inevitable demise.

I prepare to simply return to our previous conversation, but Coco isn’t next to me. She’s on her feet, fists clenched as she steps into a run. The food she had been holding sits abandoned on the grass next to me.

“Where are you going, you simpleton?! We spent funds on this food.”

“To help them, _you simpleton!”_

Her quick steps take her to the distance, and I am again reminded of her athletic prowess. Both Crash and Coco were trained extensively by Cortex, or so I am told. Despite their rather… silly natures, their experience speaks for them; soldiers, in reflex if nothing else.

Soldiers forged by a heated hero complex, no doubt. How like her to sit uneasy if so much as a baby is startled nearby.

The peons and that dragon are a part of ancient history. Our existence here has had little to no effect on them. If we were not here, Coco would have seen them. And if Coco hadn’t seen then, there would be no interference. They would die, just as history intended.

The dragon might have even received a good meal.

It came with zero consequences. Even if they had caused something that led to the dragon killing them, history would repair, so long as it was left to heal the wound. Or twist the screws in just the right way to keep the changes as you wished.

Just in time for me to do so when we are home.

… We.

It’s always ‘we’ now, isn’t it?

We’re part of this, aren’t we? Fellows who can share in the experience, despite the little care we had in each other before.

Care is another word that seems to linger all too often, these days.

Tropy had offered something amazing; a literal like-minded individual with whom I shared total interest. Different in only the most subtle ways, just enough to keep the relationship pleasant. Enjoyable.

_Exciting._

Coco is not like Tropy. She is simply a creature with whom I happen to share those same interests. A creature that is not me, yet I cannot help but admit she is impressive. Because like me, her traits share across each universe, each impressive in their own way and each always lingering somewhere beneath her skin.

Even in the worlds where she is not strong, she is.

… And if she dies here, to this dragon, then there will no longer be a ‘we’. These moments shared will no longer occur at all.

It would once again just be me.

Such a thought should bring me great joy. I could have one of those idiotic bandicoots dealt with and not even have to lift a finger to do so. One step closer to Tropy and her own successes.

It feels bitter, now. Now that I have had a mind to share ideas with, an individual with whom I can venture and not immediately feel disgusted by. Like a great wasted potential.

I stand up.

I make haste, even if I would rather admit that I wasn’t. A fear runs up my spine that something unfortunate will occur here, in this place. A great loss, or a plan failed. Yet, it’s all contained within this alien creature I now see in Coco.

_Coco._

The use of only her first name rings like a chime in my head. It only spurns me to go faster. Even unconsciously, I have been using it more.

She was right; it does feel wrong to alien by full name.

The dragon is not large, per say. But to call it small, or weak would be a grave injustice, or a stupid naivety. Thick legs support a bloated body coated in scales, the surface littered with deep scars and remnants of battles long ago.

It is a swift thing, spinning on a heel to whip its tail whenever Coco ventures too close. For the moments where she is not, it bellows a dark fire, so heated that I feel it against my cold skin from even the dozen or so meters I still need to cover. I move quickly. Or as quickly as my frame allows. I cannot waste what little energy we have stored. Not yet.

Closer. _Closer._

Coco moves in closer still to the dragon, leaping to avoid a swipe from its burly tail. She clears it.

But as the tail returns. It catches her leg just above the heel. She screams, out of pain more than fright, the denim of her clothes ripping as a dark red seeps into the blue.

I wasted too much time. “No!” So much time. But I am close enough, now.

My tall tuning fork materialises into physical space and bursts with the energy of time itself. It gathers a frightfully bright light at the tip until I fling it forward.

It blasts at the dragon’s face, searing into the scales it meets. How it roars in absolute pain, its throat tight and horribly constricted. It half-whines, strangled by the unnatural cosmic burns that only pure time can inflict

By the time it turns to face me, it is already dead; the end of my fork is thrust upwards, piercings the beast’s jaw. It ruptures the top of the skull with the crack of damp bone, pale meat straying with it. What remains dissolves into nothing as the creature vanishes from reality, the excess energy in my weapon displacing the remains, atom by atom.

It will end up somewhere else, in some other time. I admit, I take great joy in imagining where it might land, who it might frighten.

But that is neither here, nor there. It is dead, it is gone. My mission is complete.

My weapon remains, glittering with dragon’s blood. Hubris be damned for the power I wasted in the battle but dematerialising my weapon now would be a pointless waste of what little power remains. Sending it to the aether from whence it came would be wasteful, too much energy for so little gain.

Instead my focus falls on my companion. On Coco.

She lays one the ground, leaning on an arm as she prods at her leg with the opposite hand. Her fingers never wander too near the gash, afraid to touch even the skin surrounding the tear in flesh. Yet, her face displays a submissive irritation and nothing more. As if this is a minor inconvenience and only the physical nerves in her body prevent her from dealing with it through brute force alone.

How very like her.

I sigh at the sight. Whether through relief or irritation, I do not know. Or at least, I do not wish to know.

In the minutes after, I am greeted with cheers and words of thanks. Gifts of supplies and small items from the peasants I so wish would take their awful stench away from me. I consider why they offer such items for free, yet do not complain; less spending means less resources wasted, and we cannot risk doing so.

They offer aid for Coco.

That, I do not accept. A woman approaches with clean rag and water, but she does not get close. The sight of my weapon raised, coated in glittering blood will do that.

“One more step and you shall face the same fate as the dragon.”

To her credit, she stops immediately. “I-I have cloths and clean water, sir. I don’t mean no harm. To help your–“

Regardless, the supplies will be useful. Those, I do take. “And I shall deal with the injury myself.”

“Tropy, what are you–“

“Do you wish for a disease in this time period?” I seethe, though perhaps too quietly for the woman to hear. Coco would be proud of such subtly, surely. “I shall repair your injuries.” No, that is not right. “I shall care for your injuries.”

“They’re just trying to help.”

“As am I, by ensuring your continued health, rather than only the immediate.”

But that brings further questions to the forefront of my mind.

“And just why _are_ you helping us, peasant,” I ask to one of them. “You are free of danger and free to leave.” Especially with one of us so weak that she can barely stand.

And he looks at me quizzically, as if I am the one not being rational. “Because we’re thankful, sir?”

Nonsense.

I have only extended their miserable little lives by way of convenience. To save Coco, that was my aim. They could have perished for all I care.

Yet they remain… thankful?

Perhaps they refer to Coco. It feels likely, despite the looming thought that–

“See?” Coco says, limping to my side. “This is what being nice is like.”

“By tearing open your leg. How marvellous.”

“No, by making people happy.”

I look to their faces again and am indeed greeted with the realisation that she is correct; they are happy. Happy to be alive, or happy to be rescued without question, I do not know. All Coco’s doing.

“That’s all thanks to you. And now they want to make you happy.”

Make me… happy?

“They greet slaying a dragon with kindness?”

“They greet kindness with kindness, you idiot. You saved them. And me. You saved us, Nef.”

Apparently so.

More kindness is offered; a few more pieces of food from a child I had not noticed before, hidden by the caravan as she was.

And then, as I had initially expected, they move on their way. But not before reaffirming.

“Thank you”, the continue to say.

Was this a good deed? Was this what it meant to be like Coco?

Regardless, to be like Coco had wasted our energy. Just as the travelling caravan leaves, so too does my hopes of a quick exit from this time and place.

We begin our return to the hill. With any lucky, our food will still be present. And if not, we have gained plenty from our… venture. As I move forward however, Coco does not. Her steps are staggered as she struggles to even limp.

I wish to assist once more. To show… something. That I care? That I value her as a like-minded individual?

As _something?_

I wish to touch her, to hold her and claim that her injury will be gone soon. That it will not last, and that until it does, she has me. To aid her, for her to aid me.

I cannot deny the urge is selfish… but is not to ensure that we arrive home.

I pick her up in my arms, one resting behind her back and the other in support of her legs.

She squeaks, rather befitting her species, but I ignore it. It heats something pleasant in my chest that I would rather it did not.

“W-What are you doing?”

“Carrying you, obviously.”

“I got that,” she breathes, almost laughing. “You could just help me walk, you know.”

“That risks worsening the injury. Which will need adequately seen to.”

“Aww, you do care.”

“And it will waste time.”

“Yeah, because we’re totally running out of time, right?” Not after our little stunt wasted on the dragon.

We have all the time in the world.

And to carry her is more than I had expected; the softness in her form, the warm that I even feel through the thin clothes around my chest. She smells of something pleasant. Of nature, of plainness and water.

Something I have not stopped to experience in such a long time.

I hold in my arms something precious, I realise. An invention so overlooked by the masses that it might be disregarded as childish. A marvel of engineering. Something beautiful.

There’s that warmth in my chest again, but now it is blistering. Even now, holder her in a weakened state, I feel the need to touch more of her, to feel more of her. To know more about this creature that entices me so. I look down at her face, only to meet her wide eyes staring into mine.

We’re almost at our previous resting space and I find myself stopping prematurely.

My body refuses to move.

It refuses to do much. I feel something swirling in my stomach that I do not believe I have felt for a long time. Not since I looked upon the face of another Tropy, one so beautiful and alluring that I could scarcely imagine holding back a seldom-used flirtatious wit. I had wanted to do such carnal deeds with her, as she did to me. We had danced with the topic, excited for what the future held. Excited for what came after the universe was remade in our glorious image.

I feel those same things now as I hold Coco. I feel an urge to hold her tighter, to smell her body hot against mine. To feel the warmth of her fur against my cold cheek.

I see into her eyes, and I almost believe I see something similar.

In a rush I continue to the hill and place her down. Perhaps not as gently as I had wished, but the heat in my gut urges less pleasant ideas. I catch her face as her behind hits the grass, something not unlike hurt spreading up through her face.

But I cannot tell from where it resides. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

The look faded, replaced by a coy smile. “Is that you saying you were worried about me?”

“I care in so much that you are essential to safe passage to the future.” I feel the need to emphasise, so much. “Nothing more.”

She hums in false agreement. “ _Orange_ you going to admit that it’s because you find me adorable.”

I almost laugh, but I force it down. “I refuse to do any more fruit puns.”

“Go on.”

“No.”

“Just one more.” She pouts her lips and that pleasant heat returns. “ _Please.”_

I force a creak in my neck and roll my tongue within my mouth, but I relent. “I would be…” As painful as it is. “ _Grapeful_ if you dropped the subject.”

The laugh and gentle clap I receive in response makes it worthwhile. But I know there is more I could say, more jokes I could make. But I don’t, as true as they may be.

For she is the apple of my eye. She holds a peach of my cold heart.

I cannot let in mango.

I do not need to, in the end. Energy returns, the mechanisms in my suit restore themselves to full working order. The evening air brings a comforting chill to my skin, the ever-present expanse of cold space above me a comforting friend. In this time, without the flood of artificial light, the burning stars are pristine. Each cluster, every galaxy sparkles with a natural light, one of the few aspects of nature that I deem truly beautiful.

My companion likely agrees, but she cannot see it. Though I tended to her injuries, strength evades her. She sleeps on the grass at my side, a pleasant smile on her face as the fabric over her chest rises and falls. I informed her I would hold watch while she slept, leaving us free to begin anew tomorrow.

A lie, but necessary one.

I cannot wait here, with her. These black clouds drifting aimlessly in my otherwise pristine mind, sparked with bolts of lightning that only mean to light up the places in my subconscious that I would rather not accept.

Each time they flash, I only see her.

Much like a child scared of a summer storm, I find the ordeal just as frightening.

Minor repairs on my part solved the final puzzle; a minor frayed wire. Easily missed, but vital for the completed chrono circuits. A swift repair and we are ready to leave.

We may leave, but I do not wish this adventure to end. It brings an end to this time we have spent together, Coco and I. This period of revelation and discovery that I do not suppose will ever occur again.

But so too do I wish for normalcy, to leave these new feelings behind.

I only hope the jump completes as intended. I’m not sure what I shall do if it does not. Lie, perhaps. As always. Tell her it was a failed attempt, or an accident. Something where I can leave her opinion of me in this moment, frozen in time.

The warp appears around us, solidly as predicted and as quiet as anything my Time Twister could produce. It appears, it spreads over us. A twinge of wild time roars over our skin and we’re somewhere I recognise.

I recognise it, because it is where I planned to be.

A small hut. Rustic, if I were to be exceedingly polite. Extensions have been added in the years since I last saw it pictured, but the home of the bandicoots has changed little since the turn of the millennium. The interior is a worn space, filled with memories and pictures from times gone by.

With the entirety of history at my beck and call, I see no need for such silly little things. But I suppose Coco does.

I was a meter off from my predictions, however. I am outside a door, rather within the room it hides. The darkness of the sky coats the world around me, yet the house remains empty. I know where Crash is, at this moment. I know that he is with Coco, on his way to meet with me.

By morning that Coco will be lost with me in time, and my Coco can take her place.

Not that she ever will be mine. Nor do I know if such a thing is even something I desire. It all twists together in my imagination, broken up by the past.

Regardless, I pick her up and ease through the door. A simple bedroom, but a personal place all the same. It feels very much like her; scattered, but warm. Filled with things that must matter to her.

I set her down on the bed, admiring the scene for a moment longer than I should. This soft creature laying vulnerable in her bed. Any other day, it would have been the prime time to defeat her or toss her in a cage. Deliver her to Cortex for some feeble reward that only his idiocy can provide.

But I just see her, her chest rising and falling with each breath, and I feel…

Something melancholy. Like a memory of someone cherished who died long ago in a place and time I cannot reach.

But I am Doctor Nefarious Tropy, and I take my chances. I lean over head, looking to the fur that hides her eyes and plant my lips just above, on the flat of her forehead. It feels inherently wrong, too _good_ for someone like me. Too much like _love_ and _friendship_ and all the asinine rubbish I hear the so-called heroes deal with by design.

To leave, that would be wise. It is time to leave this charade behind, for as little as I wish to. I turn to leave, to exit the room and close the door, to never look back.

I am greeted by a familiar mask.

Aku Aku stares at me, into me. With his bright empty eyes and carved features. Even on this mask, this representation of ‘good’, he is still an angry thing. Carved with purpose, just like his brother.

I expect a battle. I expect to hear screaming and the abrupt demolition of this ending that I had thought so well designed.

“Nefarious,” he says instead.

“Aku,” I reply.

He does not look at Coco, only me. I can tell by the calm in his stare that he knows she is well; he has seen her breathe. He likely saw her placed down on her bed.

He knows she is safe.

Yet… “May I leave?” I ask, tersely. The words are pained, and I know that he can tell.

“You may.” He does not mention it.

He drifts to the side and I close the door behind me. To transport myself again inside the house would be foolish, especially when I can leave. A locked door is difficult to break into, but to leave merely requires a key.

I find such a key in the entrance, and I turn it. The door unlocks and my future awaits.

“You have my thanks,” the little mask says. “I was told of this event.”

“Kupuna-Wa, I assume?”

“Of course. Some events require a little foreknowledge to ensure they happen peacefully.”

Or not. She likely just sent you where you were meant to be at this precise moment in time. Sharing the details of such an event holds little value, so long as everything goes as intended. Though I do not suppose there is a difference to those without expertise and my field.

But trust this mask to be so _pleasant_ to an enemy. How naïve.

Ultimately, I am no different.

I do not reply, nor do I acknowledge that anything was said at all. A door is once more closed behind me, and I am under the same sky. Separated by centuries, yet to the stars it has been no time at all. They rest in their designated spaces, travelling so quickly through the void of space, yet so slowly to those on this planet at the same time.

I hear the click of a lock behind me, guided by the push of Aku’s magic, no doubt. But with it, so too has my path forward been set. There’s no going back now.

Perhaps the future holds something unseen. Perhaps I might experience this camaraderie again, or something more intimate. Perhaps.

Perhaps.

There is a lot of that where time is considered. A lot of unknowns, despite the foreknowledge it can bring.

But the unknown is more comfortable than this weight in my heart, this thing dragging me into a place I cannot explain. This place where I find Coco Bandicoot a pleasant experience, and perhaps, where she finds the same of me.

I can’t stay here, not any longer.

With a new set of coordinates, I shift in time once more. To a place far away, in a time where supplies can be gathered. Where I can plan my next move.

Wherever that happens to be, I can’t help but hope Coco Bandicoot will be there too.


End file.
